


On the Bias

by ehmazing



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Backstory, Bad Decisions, Boss/Employee Relationship, Cheating, Dysfunctional Relationships, Extramarital Affairs, F/F, F/M, Non-Chronological, Speculation, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-19 16:37:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16538264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehmazing/pseuds/ehmazing
Summary: The Agrestes used to travel for business. Nathalie used to go with them.[Spoilers for the s2 finale]





	On the Bias

**Author's Note:**

> for Sarah, whomst I loathe with all my heart, and Essie, to whomst I owe my life for beta-ing
> 
> I already put the tag up there but jsyk this fic is non-chronological on purpose!! But numbers are indeed there if you want to try actually reading it that way, lol.

****xi.** Paris**

 

In retrospect, they should have picked a better place than the office. The glass desk is cold against Nathalie’s bare thighs, the edge biting into her stomach with every thrust. She’s going to have to wipe her handprints off later; it’s hard to get any traction under her slick palms and she has to keep readjusting to push herself up.

“Monsieur—” Gabriel answers with a firm bite on the back of her neck. _“Monsieur,_ Adrien will be home for his piano lesson in ten minutes.”

He doesn’t change the pace, doesn’t tighten his hands on her hips. The back of her neck is stinging from his teeth. “Good. With all that noise, no one will be able to hear.”

She arches her back, watching her breath fog up the glass beneath her. She keeps her head down because if she looks up, she’ll know exactly which wall she’s facing. The Miraculous Stone is dull in the afternoon light, carefully placed on the desk blotter, out of the way. These are the only times she can get him to unpin it. As soon as they finish, it goes back on.

Within ten minutes, the strains of Mozart’s “Sonata No. 3” are dancing down the hall, bouncing merrily off the marble and steel and winding through all the cracks of the house, and as the crescendo builds Nathalie finally lets herself moan.

 

* * *

 

**i. London**

 

Nathalie Sancoeur was twenty-two, poor as dirt, and fresh out of fashion school when she went to the party that changed her life. She would remember everything about the evening: the cold air drifting through the windows and mingling with the scent of cigarettes; the brush of silk on skin as she moved through the tight-packed crowd; the cheap champagne coating her tongue with a bittersweet film.

“Gabriel, I’d like to introduce you to one of my best and brightest students: Nathalie Sancoeur.” Thierry, her favorite professor, had managed to smuggle her in and seemed determined to start her career networking all by himself. He pushed her forward, sensing her nervousness even though she was doing her best to appear unaffected by the man before her. “Nathalie, this is the one to watch! Within ten years, he’ll have conquered Paris!”

“It’s an honor, monsieur,” she said. “I saw the preview of your resort collection last month and haven’t stopped thinking about it since.” She held out her hand and hoped her palm wasn’t too clammy.

But she needn’t have worried—instead of shaking it, Gabriel Agreste took a feather-light hold of her fingers and kissed the very peak of her knuckles.

“Thank you,” he said. He glanced away to aim a stern look at her professor, one brow arching. “Thierry, don’t spread such rumors. ‘Conquer Paris?’ Please. In ten years, I’ll have conquered the whole world.”

Thierry sloshed his drink over his hand as he barked a laugh, slapping Monsieur Agreste on the shoulder and calling him a pompous bastard. Monsieur Agreste caught her eye and winked.

“Pompous only for show,” he defended himself. “Bastard, most certainly.”

When Thierry left to replace his spilled champagne, Nathalie felt her pulse quicken as fear set in. She hated parties, and she hated fashion parties most of all. She hated being left alone with talented designers that she had no chance of ever holding a candle to while trying to find some meager thing they had in common. Nine times out of ten she could only manage five minutes on her own before she implied that she had to use the ladies’ room, and would hide there until enough time had passed for her to be forgotten.

“So, Mademoiselle Sancoeur, you’ve broken out of IFM then? Design?”

“No, monsieur, management.”

“Signed your life away to a house yet?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Ah, working independently?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Any responses aside from ‘no, monsieur?’”

“No, mon—” Nathalie fought down her blush. “Sorry. It’s just, ah—” she gestured weakly to the crowded room, “—very loud in here.”

“I understand.” His long, cool fingers brushed against hers again as he placed his champagne glass in her other hand. “Describe the coat you wore tonight and meet me at the door.”

Somehow he managed to find hers in the heap of black and held both their glasses as she slipped it on. Though it wasn’t raining, the London damp settled like a blanket over them, tiny droplets of mist glistening in Monsieur Agreste’s shock-white hair. They sat on the broken stoop of the expensive flat. He lit her a cigarette. The din of the party escaped from the open windows above, but the night muffled it, buried it in fog. Nathalie swept her wet hair from her forehead and felt she had known Gabriel Agreste for ages, for a lifetime. He gazed out into the dark streets and conjured dreams with his silky voice about what the coming summer was going to look like.

When their cigarettes were smoldering ashes on the wet stones beneath their feet, he stood up and offered her his hand.

“Come back inside, Mademoiselle Sancoeur,” he said. “Come meet my wife.”

 

* * *

 

**v. Berlin**

 

They are over an hour late to the Berlinale’s red carpet, and Nathalie is starting to grind her teeth.

“Nathalie? Could you tie my shoes? If I try to bend over, I’m afraid this dress won’t last the night.”

Emilie has to sit on the edge of the bathtub so Nathalie can kneel on the tile and tie the long silk ribbons of her sandals. _Cross over, cross under,_  Nathalie mutters to herself, wrapping the ties around the curve of Emilie’s calves in the pattern Gabriel insisted upon. One crooked bow and there’ll be hell to pay. The ends of the ribbons dangle just below Emilie's knees, dark red cutting sharp lines across her creamy skin. Nathalie hooks her hands under Emilie’s elbows to help her stand back up, careful not to jostle her too much. The dress is indeed worryingly tight against the large swell of her belly.

“My savior!” Emilie sighs. “I’m naming my firstborn for you, Nathalie!” She pats her stomach with both hands, smiling in the mirror. “Hear that, _ma petite?_ Your namesake saved your mother’s back!”

Nathalie tries to smile back, but all she can see in the mirror is the reflection of the hotel room clock. “Madame, I think we really should consider going soon—”

“Five more minutes, that’s all. If he’s not here in five minutes, we’ll leave, I promise.” Emilie squeezes her elbow as she passes, waddling in the direction of the kitchenette. “The press can wait. We’ll be doing them a favor—saving the biggest piece of gossip for last! I’m making another tea. I really can’t wait for your birthday, little baby, because six months without coffee has been hell.”

Nathalie looks at the clock again—she can’t help it—and feels her jaw start to ache.

Emilie bustles about the hotel room, chattering all the while. It must be a new habit from the pregnancy: a constant, idle narration of even the simplest tasks and objects, as if she’s determined to explain the whole world to the baby before it arrives. Nathalie even caught her doing it in the music room one day, rubbing her belly as she pressed and named each and every key on the piano. 

“Who am I talking to? The—the baby, of course. The books say you’re supposed to talk so the baby knows your voice,” she explained, brushing off Nathalie’s light teasing. “I have to talk twice as much because god knows Gabriel won’t bother, unless the baby could hold a conversation about changing trends in trouser cuts.”

She’s doing it now as she makes tea. Nathalie closes her eyes and tries to only hear Emilie’s voice, not the buzzing of her pager or the tick of the clock or the security and paparazzi milling outside on the sidewalk below.

“First we fill the kettle—not all the way, but enough so there’s some water left to be heated again later if we want. Now while we wait for the boiler plate to warm up, we make sure there’s no dust in the mug. Never trust hotel dishware, no matter how many stars it may have. Next we open the teabag—disgusting, this ginger stuff, I miss real caffeine—and we just straighten the string to…”

Silence settles in. Nathalie opens her eyes. Emilie is standing at the narrow counter, teabag in one hand, string in the other. She must have pulled too hard and ripped it. But what worries Nathalie is how her red lips are pursed and wobbling and her eyes are welling with tears.

“Oh, madame,” she says, standing quickly, “it’s alright, I’ll get another, please don’t—”

Dropping the broken teabag, Emilie buries her face in her hands and sobs.

“—Get upset,” Nathalie finishes weakly. Emilie only cries louder as the kettle begins to steam.

 _Humans are cursed,_ Nathalie thinks, as she gently leads Emilie back to the bathroom in order to fix her makeup again. _No other kind of animal has to go mad for nine months before they give birth._

“Maybe we should call it off, madame.” She swipes another coat of lipstick over Emilie’s mouth, straightening the uneven edges with the corner of a too-plush bathroom towel. “You could make a press release through the magazines instead. All the celebrities these days are getting good deals to sell the first pictures. I heard Anaïs Cristoff gave birth to triplets and—”

“No.” Emilie sniffles, but her eyes are hard. “No, I’m not going to sell the photo rights. My child won’t be in anyone’s grocery store tabloid. And I don’t care what Gabriel wants; I’m not going to spend my whole pregnancy in hiding. I do enough of that already.” She glances at the clock that has taunted Nathalie all afternoon. “Bastard. He’s probably holed up in the studio, ignoring the phone, and missed his car entirely. He’s probably not even dressed.”

She takes the towel to blow her nose, then smooths her hands over her hair, straightening her favorite fan pin on the strap of her dress. Nathalie considers trying to convince her again that it doesn't match the style at all, but changes her mind when she sees Emilie set her jaw. This time she rises from the bathtub rim without any help.

“Well, screw him. This is _my_ premiere, and _my_ red carpet, and _my_ fat belly to parade in front of whichever cameras I like. Call the car, Nathalie. We’re going now.”

They do a few more touch-ups on the way to the film festival. Nathalie yells at the driver whenever he turns fast enough to jolt her hand and dust the leather seats with blush. By the time they’ve arrived, Emilie’s eyelids are no longer smeared with black, her cheeks aren’t red and puffy, and her nose isn’t running. The only evidence of her little breakdown is the glistening shine of her eyes, but when she smiles it could pass easily for a new mother’s happy glow.

“Thank you, Nathalie,” she says as the driver gets out to open her door. “You’re a hero.” Before she goes to face the paparazzi, she leans forward to press a fleeting kiss to Nathalie’s cheek.

Nathalie doesn’t leave the car herself until she’s sure she’s wiped every trace of the lipstick off her skin.

 

* * *

 

**ix. Tokyo**

 

They don’t usually leave the lights on, but this time they don’t have much choice in the matter. There are too many lights in this city. Too much of everything, in Nathalie’s opinion: people, cars, buildings, subway lines. Her phone lost signal inside Ueno Station and after she passed the same ice cream stall for the fifth time, she thought she may never find her way back to the outside world.

But the lights—glaring rainbows of neon and burning white screens in between flashing ads upon ads upon ads. Emilie demanded blackout curtains in her suite after the first night, insisting that the windows and billboards of the skyscraper across from their Shinjuku hotel kept Adrien up all night. Emilie’s own dark circles were a topic best left unbroached. Nathalie herself was waking up at odd hours, starving, as if her body insisted nothing she ate mattered unless it was consumed at dinner time in Paris.

Gabriel sent the hotel staff shopping for curtains for his son, but left his own blinds open. He could always sleep in an instant if he wished, lights or no. It didn’t bother him that the glow of some red sign she couldn’t read was spilling into his room, pooling over his floor and in his sheets, settling over his skin.

“What are you looking at?”

“Have you ever dyed your hair red?” she asks, combing one hand through the locks gelled stiff at the top of his head. It’s pale pink in the daylight, at least until this latest color fades. He frowns and lifts a hand to push hers away, but then she tightens her grip and he grunts, throat bobbing. Nathalie shifts her weight to settle over his hips, rocking slowly; he’s not hard enough yet, but she’s patient.

“No.” Gabriel pants when she pulls his hair again, her other hand slipping over his chest to draw aimless patterns over his ribs. “Why, should I?”

“You want my opinion?”

“You sound surprised.”

“You _never_ want my opinion.”

“I don’t have the skin tone to pull off red.” He lifts his hips to grind against her but she presses down, holding him there, and _oh,_ he very nearly whines. “You, on the other hand, could try it.”

“I’ve never dyed my hair before,” she muses, and it’s true. Not even in design school, when it felt like everyone else had a new cut three times a week. Gabriel’s thumbs smooth over her hips. His hands are so warm and her skin so slick that she can’t feel if he’s wearing his wedding ring or not.

Then she remembers how Emilie stormed out of the Michelin-rated sushi place that took Nathalie several months to get reservations for, so probably not.

“Well, if you want _my_ opinion…” Gabriel lifts his hips again as much as he’s able, and yes, he’s harder already, his eyes glinting mischievously from the pillow. “It’d suit you.”

The alarm clock warns that it’s nearing four in the morning, but she isn’t tired in the least. The shadows under Gabriel’s eyes have been washed away by the red light, his cheekbones carved sharp. She pulls at his hair until it’s in tangles. He gasps, trembling as she licks a line down his glowing throat as if she could taste the red on his skin. His fingers press sharply into her back.

“Nathalie,” he moans when she finally sinks down onto him.

She smiles. “Yes, monsieur?”

_“Nathalie.”_

“Yes, I heard you, was there something you wanted?”

He huffs, digging in his nails. “Nathalie, if you don’t start _moving_ I will personally—”

“Of course, monsieur,” she says, obliging. Gabriel glares, and then he groans, and then he laughs once, hands relaxing to fall back down to her hips.

“Nathalie,” he says again, soft, raw, his mouth painted scarlet by the light. She shoves down the strange, heavy feeling building in her chest, trying not to wonder if the blackout curtains have worked, if it’s dark enough that Adrien could fall asleep next door, if Emilie is in the hotel at all.

 

* * *

 

**vii. New York City**

 

“Don’t tell Gabriel,” Emilie used to say, “but sometimes I like it better here than Paris.”

Nathalie didn’t. The only place she felt at home in America was on the subway, where the rattle of the train and the press of bodies were just familiar enough that she could pretend she was on the Métro and everyone else in the car was an English-speaking tourist.

She was caught up in that fantasy, in fact, the night it happened.

It was late. They’d stayed at the afterparty for too long, and Emilie had too much to drink, and Nathalie had enough that she didn’t say no when Emilie insisted on taking the subway instead of a cab. “Taxi yellow makes me look washed out,” she’d joked, and it was Nathalie’s fault that she found that too charming to refuse. They were giggling arm-in-arm—to keep Emilie standing—as they went through the turnstiles, huddling close on the platform, stockinged legs shivering until the train arrived.

“Fashion Week, Fashion Week, the worst time of the year!” Emilie sang under her breath as she slumped into a seat and tugged Nathalie down with her. Nathalie gestured for her to be quiet, even though they were the only ones who boarded; two men were sitting at the other end of the car, deep in conversation, and a half-asleep teenage couple were leaning on each other at a pole near the doors. “Why can’t we show off haute couture year-round, hmm? Why do we have to hoard it for only two seasons?”

“To make money, madame,” Nathalie replied, bemused.

“Money!” Emilie scoffed. “We have enough of that by now! I swear, Nathalie, one of these days I’ll fly back to Tibet, and I’ll live in a little monastery high in the mountains, and I’ll never touch a euro again!”

“You would need some for the plane ticket, at least, madame.”

Emilie elbowed her sharply, pouting, then broke into giggles. “You’re too practical, Nathalie! You should come with me. You’d make a very good monk.”

“I don’t think a quiet life would sit well with me,” she admitted. “I don’t shun money _or_ Fashion Week.”

“You sound like my husband.” Emilie yawned. Nathalie stiffened when she felt Emilie’s head rest on her shoulder. “You’re two peas in a pod. Birds of a feather. Cut from the same cloth.” She descended back into giggles. “Oh—that’s good! ‘Cut from the same cloth!’”

“Hey. Phones and wallets.”

Nathalie looked up into the barrel of a gun.

One of the two men was standing in front of them, face masked with a scarf, aiming a pistol at her nose. His companion was occupied with the two teenagers, who were awake now and trembling, hands raised over their heads. 

“Uh—uh—” She swallowed. Her throat was dry, head buzzing. She decided, for whatever reason, that she should continue speaking only French. _“D-désolée, je ne comprends pas, je ne parle pas anglais.”_

The mugger took another step forward, speaking louder this time. “Phones. And. Wallets.” A gruff laugh. “See voo play, ma’moiselle.”

The teenagers were hurriedly turning out their pockets. The girl looked close to tears. Nathalie’s clutch was in her hand, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t feel her arm. She had never seen a gun outside of the movies. She felt like she was in a dream and didn’t know how to wake up. Emilie’s head wasn’t on her shoulder anymore—oh god, _Emilie,_ she let Emilie come down here, she put Emilie in danger, Gabriel was going to have her head on a platter—

With the teenagers’ belongings stuffed into his coat, the second mugger joined his friend and grunted, “Bitch, he _said_ hand over your phones and wall—”

_“Transforme-moi.”_

It happened in a second—no, less than that. From the corner of her eye she saw a bright flash of blue. Then a gloved hand seized the second mugger by the neck and pitched him to the other side of the car.

He did not get up.

The stranger straightened and dusted off their long blue coat. The first mugger’s gun was no longer aimed at Nathalie, but hanging loose in his hand as he stared from the stranger’s masked face, to his fallen partner, to the stranger again.

“Okay,” the stranger said in heavily-accented English. “You next.”

A twist, a kick, and a neat spin was all it took for them to throw the man against the ceiling, hard enough to crack the light. He groaned weakly when he hit the bench and rolled limply off. The stranger’s blue boots thudded against the floor as they retrieved and returned the teenagers’ phones and wallets. When the train doors opened, they tossed the two men out as if they weighed nothing at all, and threw the guns—bullets squashed flat in one fist—with perfect precision into a trash bin on the platform. At the stop after that, they gestured to Nathalie.

“This is our station, right?” in French. In English, to the teenagers: “Please be safe!” The two of them nodded hurriedly, eyes wide, clutching each other’s hands. French, to Nathalie again: _“Vite,_ come on, we’re going to miss the stop!”

Somehow Nathalie got to her feet and followed the stranger out before the train pulled away. Another flash, and there stood Emilie in her black heels, black dress, black coat, not a stitch of blue in sight. Nathalie thought for a moment that she saw some small thing burrow into Emilie’s clutch, but that was ridiculous—this was ridiculous—all of this was ridiculous and _impossible—_

“I shouldn’t have done it around other people, I know,” Emilie was telling her clutch, “but someone could’ve gotten hurt! And of course we can trust Nathalie!” She sighed. “I’m sorry, Duusu. It won’t happen again.”

“Madame—” Nathalie started, and couldn’t think of how to finish.

“Nathalie.” Emilie snapped her clutch shut. Her gait was no longer unsteady, her face no longer flushed from the wine. Her eyes, so bright, so green, looked imploringly into Nathalie’s. “Don’t tell Gabriel.”

 

* * *

 

**iv. Sydney**

 

Was it her fault? Was she supposed to stop it? Was she supposed to refuse on principle, quietly turn in her notice, and find another fashion house that would hire her before word got out? Before he took his revenge?

No—Gabriel wouldn’t do that, wasn’t like that. He was simply a man who got what he wanted. And he wanted Nathalie.

Nathalie wanted him too. Wanted him from the first moment he kissed her hand in that crowded London flat. Wanted him even though he had to be prodded into returning important calls; was always so picky in choosing the interns that the studio never had as much help as it needed; and never, ever remembered his checking account number. She wanted him when he was being a genius and when he was being a tyrant. Wanted him in the office and in the house and in the limo and especially during his finale appearances on the runway, where he was a genius and a tyrant and a god all in one. She wanted Gabriel, the man who would conquer the world.

She wanted him even though it killed her to think of hurting Emilie.

Emilie had none of Gabriel’s skills; she couldn’t sweep anyone away with charisma alone. She could be sweet, but she was always blunt, whether or not it suited the situation at hand. Her agent had to select her interviews carefully, for she could cause either sensation or scandal depending on the questions asked, and the media would always take advantage. She never pretended to like anyone she hated, or be aloof to anyone she liked.

She was unlike anyone else Nathalie had ever met in the fashion industry. She was unlike anyone else, period.

It had to be Nathalie’s fault. Her priorities were a gordian knot, for every time she thought,  _We could get caught,_ the worst ending she could imagine wasn’t losing her job, but Emilie finding out. The Agrestes had just announced the pregnancy—to family, not yet the press—and it seemed to have finally mended the rift they’d been stuck in since the winter show in Barcelona. There was no way Emilie would stay with Gabriel if she found out. But she’d be heartbroken regardless, and then the divorce would affect her pregnancy, and then there’d be a baby whose life Nathalie had screwed up before it even began.

 _I’m ruining some child’s future,_ she always thought, _I’m ruining Emilie’s._  She never thought,  _I’m ruining my own._

She watches the two of them from the resort bar while nursing a piña colada clogged with too much coconut. The hot summer wind is wreaking havoc on Emilie’s loose curls, the salty air forming crystals on the lenses of Gabriel’s glasses. He’s in a very rare mood: giddy. He keeps leaning down to whisper things to his wife while others converse around them, one spy passing information to another. Emilie giggles whenever his breath tickles her ear, touching her stomach over and over even though she’s still quite flat.

Nathalie turns around, gulping down the rest of her drink in one go and clanking the glass down on the bar counter.

“Careful—these are so sweet that you might get a toothache.”

A woman is leaning at the other end of the bar, her own piña colada still half-full. Thick Australian accent and a model, judging by her height. Nathalie doesn’t smile back, but she doesn’t pretend not to look.

“I’m not worried. I have a very good dental plan.”

“Let me guess: Paris? St. Clothilde? Accountant?”

“Paris, Gabriel, Head Coordinator.”

“Ah! The woman behind the curtain.” The model sidles closer, leaving her drink behind. “Privy to all the dirty secrets, I’ll bet.”

“If you’re looking for dirt to feed to Monsieur Levine so that Hérald can finally put out a fall collection worth showing in public, I’m afraid you won’t get any from me.”

The model laughs, combing back her platinum hair with one hand. “Don’t worry, I have no interest in digging! I just signed with Elite, so I have to make nice with all the French houses if I want to get paid.” She leans in, elbow resting on the counter. “I'm moving next month, actually. Have any tips for someone new to Paris?”

It’s far too obvious a come-on, and that’s why Nathalie takes her up on it.

They find one of the little side lounges inside the club and lock the door. The model—she slipped her name in somewhere but Nathalie is already having trouble remembering what it is, her brain keeps defaulting to “Piña Colada”—is too tall, of course, and too lean. Her hair isn’t naturally blonde and has been ironed straight so often that the ends are starting to split. Legs locked around the model’s waist, Nathalie rolls her over and pushes her head down, twisting her hair so that it covers her face as she ducks between Nathalie’s thighs.

“Do you speak any French?”

A wet kiss against her leg, a flicker of tongue at the band of her underwear. “No. Sorry.”

Nathalie shakes her head, winding a lock of fried platinum blonde between her fingers. “No, that’s fine. Could you—could you just—”

“I can find my way. Use whatever words you want.”

“Yes,” Nathalie pants, closing her eyes, “yes, okay, yes.”

It feels close, when she finally gets out of her own head a little. She tunes out the thumping music and the club chatter bleeding in from the crack under the door. This could be any club, any city—this could be Paris. Piña Colada follows her instructions well enough and enthusiastically enough, and it’s been a while, Gabriel has been so busy, she hasn’t sought out anyone new. When she comes Nathalie comes hard, whimpering nonsense words in no language at all. The model laughs right against her skin when all she can understand are repeated “fuck”s and it’s close, it’s so _close._

Close, but not the real thing.

In the morning, Nathalie order a red wine on the flight to Hong Kong to wash the taste of coconut out of her mouth. Emilie spends the whole nine hours holding her husband’s hand and ordering endless blueberries, as if if she doesn’t eat them, she’ll starve.

 

* * *

 

**vi. São Paulo**

 

“Anything else?”

“Well, apparently there have been more sightings of the giant animal ghosts.” Nathalie lets herself smile a little, flipping the case of her planner shut. “But that’s all for today, monsieur.”

Gabriel grunts and returns to his coffee, but Emilie looks up from feeding Adrien.

“That's all?! You're just going to leave it at 'giant animal ghosts?'” She ducks a flying spoonful of mashed peas. Adrien squeals, delighted, when they splatter on the carpet. Gabriel frowns at the stain.

“Just hearsay, madame. It all started in those kind of magazines that think crocodiles secretly live in Paris’ catacombs. But apparently there have been so many similar reports worldwide that it was featured on France 4 this morning.”

“And what kind of animals are these ghosts?”

“They seem to take any form. An elderly woman came home to a burglary and suddenly found her long-dead terrier—only bright red, and seven feet tall—who chased the thieves away. Several people trapped in a factory fire claimed that a huge green eagle blew out the blaze by flapping its wings. And just yesterday, here in Brazil, a little boy was caught in a riptide and feared lost. Everyone on the beach saw what appeared to be a golden plesiosaur carry him back to shore. The boy told reporters that when he felt so tired he could no longer swim, he heard a voice telling him to think of something strong. He thought of a dinosaur he saw in a picture book, and suddenly he was riding it.”

“Extraordinary!” Emilie says at the same time that Gabriel huffs, “Idiotic.”

Ignoring her husband, Emilie turns back to her son. “Which animal would protect you, _mon cherí?”_ she coos. “What about a great big lion, hmm, to match your hair? What does the lion say, Adrien?”

Adrien slaps his little hands against his high chair and shouts excitedly, _“Woof woof!”_

Emilie wipes his cheeks, laughing. “Well. Close enough.” Her last word is half-buried in a yawn.

Gabriel looks up from his coffee. “You’re still not sleeping.”

“Our little lion keeps me up.”

“I told you: we’re getting a nanny.”

“We are _not.”_

“Audrey Bourgeois—”

“Audrey Bourgeois has always put her career first.” Emilie maneuvers another spoonful of peas into Adrien’s mouth. “She put it over her husband’s and now over her daughter. I’ve never put my acting career before your business, have I?”

Gabriel doesn’t reply.

“I want one thing.  _One thing_ that is mine.”

“He’s my son too.”

The silence stretches on until Nathalie carefully clears her throat.

“…Monsieur, is there anything else—”

“No,” both Agrestes say at the same time. Adrien pushes the rest of his peas to the floor.

 

* * *

 

**iii. Dubai**

 

She thought it would only happen once. Just once, and then they’d have their fill, or they’d break apart. The morning after, she watched the sun rise over the city, the sky turning orange over the sea like a piece of silk in a vat of dye: slowly, then all at once.

Gabriel scoffed at her analogy.

“I don’t want to hear any more about silk for at least another month. Finishing this summer collection took ten years off my life.”

He passed her his cigarette. Bare-chested, glasses still resting on the nightstand, he looked so unlike himself that for a moment she thought the morning had dawned on different Gabriel Agreste. Nathalie ran a hand through her hair, her own glasses on the dresser. Maybe she was someone different too.

“We’ve come close to divorce before.” Gabriel didn’t ask for the cigarette back, so Nathalie took another deep drag. “I thought last year it would happen for sure. But then it didn’t, and she stayed.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why she stays.”

Nathalie exhaled, watching the plume of smoke twist upwards and vanish into nothing. “Why do you?”

“Because I love her.” Gabriel tilted his head back to lean against the headboard. “More than anything, than everything. Even when I hate her I still love her. Like being under a curse.” He stood, picked up his shirt from the floor and buttoned it as he walked to the bathroom. “And we were so young and stupid that we didn’t bother signing a prenup.”

He paused in the doorway, one hand on the light switch. Nathalie could see his face reflected in the bathroom mirror beyond, but without her glasses she couldn’t make out his expression.

“This shouldn't happen again.”

She focused all her attention on the cigarette. Inhale. Exhale.

“No, monsieur.”

Inhale. Exhale. Watch the smoke spiral up and up and up and away.

 

* * *

 

**viii. Milan**

 

Nathalie’s mouth is stuffed with pins and she’s elbows-deep in tulle when Gigi, the new girl, pages her headset.

“Mademoiselle Sancoeur,” she says, voice cracking from fear, “I can’t find Adrien.”

Nathalie curses, wriggling out from under the model’s cape.

“You have ten minutes to fix this,” she orders an intern, spitting out the pins into a napkin and shoving it into his hands. “Staple it back together if you have to. So long as the audience can’t see the seam, it’ll do.” He barks a yes like she’s an army captain and dives under the tulle without hesitation. She makes a mental note to recommend this one for a promotion.

Gigi, however… Nathalie finds her fretting by the tech booth, crawling through the tangles of cables, headscarf askew.

“He was a here a minute ago, mademoiselle, I swear, I was watching him like a hawk!” Tears are brimming behind Gigi’s white-framed glasses. “Oh god, what do we do? What if he’s wandered outside?”

“If he’s only been gone a minute, he can’t have gotten that far,” Nathalie says, trying not snarl. Snapping at Gigi tends to only make her more upset, and therefore more useless. “Get up, he’s not behind that panel; he’s a four-year-old, not a mouse.”

She sends Gigi to check under all the tables in the dressing area—once they found Adrien under the makeup station, smearing eyeshadow all over his face for twenty minutes while the Gigi’s predecessor openly sobbed, certain he’d been kidnapped—while Nathalie searches the maze of halls backstage, checking her watch with every step and making announcements over her headset to the rest of the crew, trying to keep the rising panic from her voice. They have twenty minutes til showtime. Fifteen. Ten. Five.

There’s no time left; she lets Gigi know in no uncertain terms that if she doesn’t find Adrien by the final walk, she will receive her final paycheck in the mail. Then Nathalie sprints to the curtain and sends the first model down the runway as the music kicks in.

They get through the first set without further incident. The tulle cape looks as good as new, not a pin or staple in sight. As the second set begins, Gabriel arrives to loom over her shoulder, eyes glued to video monitor.

“Good work on the cape.”

“Thank you, monsieur, but I owe the help to Frédéric.”

“Hmm. Let him know that we have an open position, then.”

“Yes, monsieur. I think he’d do very well if we gave him more training in—”

Gabriel shoves her suddenly to the side, seizing the video monitor with both hands.

“Nathalie!” he snaps, whirling around, fury blazing in his eyes. _“Who was supposed to be watching my son?!”_

She stares at him, then at the video monitor, where little Adrien Agreste is wandering onto the runway.

She bolts. One of the models shrieks when Nathalie shoves past her, falling backwards and jostling the girl behind her, then the girl behind that one, a line of six-foot dominoes struggling not to topple over. Nathalie sticks her head as far through the curtain as she dares—one of the huge decorative vases is covering the entrance, thankfully, so she might escape being in the photographs—and calls,

“Adrien! _Adrien!”_

But the boy doesn’t hear her. The audience is tittering, a few people pointing, others waving as Adrien stands stock-still, frozen with shyness. He keeps looking to the right, at the front row, where his mother is not. Nathalie sticks her whole torso through the curtain now, daring to call his name a little louder.

Someone from the crowd playfully shouts, “Show us your walk, _mignon!”_

And Adrien Agreste, only four years old, needs no more encouragement to stuff his hands in his pockets and strut down the runway.

The crowd goes wild, cameras flashing left and right. Adrien does a little spin on his heel at the end of the catwalk and the whole room cheers. His face lights up, tiny dimples creasing his round cheeks. He half-walks, half-skips his way back to the curtain, pausing for one more pose before ceding to the next model, whose practiced pout cracks into a grin as he passes her. When he spots Nathalie, he runs over and takes her hand.

“Did you see me, Père?” he cries when Nathalie delivers him to Gabriel, throwing his arms around his father’s knees. “Did Maman see me?”

“Yes, Adrien, I did.” Gabriel reaches down and ruffles his son’s golden curls. “But Maman isn’t here, remember? Maman didn’t want to come.”

“Oh.” Adrien deflates a little while Nathalie stares, perplexed, at Gabriel. Every other time Adrien has escaped, their reunion usually ends in a loud scolding and tears.

“But I have an idea.” Gabriel takes his son’s hand and leads him down the line of models, stopping at the last one in the collection’s showstopper gown. The girl wiggles her fingers in a wave. Adrien waves shyly back. “How would you like to take a photo for Maman? A photo of you, me, and Fatima?”

“A photo!” Adrien bounces excitedly on his toes. “A photo for Maman!”

“Then hold my hand, here, and Fatima’s when she comes back—very good, Adrien. Now we wait until Nathalie says it’s time to go. Remember to smile!”

Fatima takes Adrien’s hand for the finale. He walks out between the model and his father, grinning ear to ear, not flinching at all from the roar of the standing ovation or the thousand blinding flashes of the paparazzi.

The next morning, on Gabriel’s orders, Nathalie promotes the intern, fires Gigi, readies a contract, and makes sure Emilie stays away from the news.

 

* * *

 

**x. Madrid**

 

Gabriel the brand is very concerned with its image and impact in the public eye. Gabriel the man is not. He’s only half-listening to the chairman of some charity board aiming to cut back waste produced by the cotton industry, but he’s cultivated such a solid stone-faced look for every occasion that Nathalie doubts the chairman notices. The chairman’s wife, on the other hand, keeps glaring daggers at Emilie every time she yawns.

Nathalie is considering passing her another drink—to make her look occupied with _something,_ at the very least—when Emilie startles suddenly, straightening and clutching her right shoulder with one hand as though she’s been pricked by a pin. The chairman’s wife notices.

“Something wrong, _chérie?”_ she asks, dripping with fake sweetness. The chairman pauses; he and Gabriel turn their attention on Emilie too.

“No, nothing,” Emilie answers, as bad at faking nonchalance as she is at faking interest. “I just need—I have to—excuse me for a moment.”

She’s turned and fled before anyone can question her further.

Gabriel lets the chairman pick up where he left off. One glance out of the corner of his eye is all Nathalie needs to understand that she is not to follow his wife.

It takes another half an hour. Gabriel makes conversation with Madame Barclée, lead designer for Marie Chignonne; then talks up the very wealthy, couture-loving daughter of a Chinese oil tycoon; then savors the rest of his vodka soda without vodka—he never drinks at events—before he nods to Nathalie. They quietly make their way out of the gardens and into the mansion, dodging other guests before Gabriel can be trapped into more small talk.

There’s only one closed door on the third floor. Gabriel orders Nathalie to stand guard and opens it.

“Emilie?”

“Gabriel! Look, there was—I had to—”

Gabriel steps inside. The door clicks shut.

Nathalie does as she’s told. She stands guard while their voices rise in pitch and in volume. She stands guard while there is stomping and yelling and the sound of something being thrown at a wall. She stands guard while the fight grows like a fire making its home in a forest, burning and burning until you can’t ignore the smoke.

_“Whatever you’re doing, you’re killing yourself! You think I wouldn’t notice?! You never sleep! You either eat fruit or nothing at all! You cover yourself in makeup but you look so sickly that we need to doctor your photos! Even Adrien has noticed! You’re obsessed with that book, with whatever’s inside those boxes you're hiding—”_

_“You know nothing—”_

_“I know you don’t stay behind because you hate going to my shows. I know you’re walling yourself up in the attic and you’re talking to someone up there, and you manage to leave sometimes even with the windows locked, and god help me Emilie if you’re with someone else you should have just fucking told me—”_

_“Someone else! Oh, that’s rich, coming from you! You think I’m stupid? You think I wouldn’t find out about Cerise? Or Ángel, or Sophie? Keiko? Élodie? You think I don’t know about you and—”_

_“Emilie—”_

_“—Because I knew, I’ve known for years, but she was the only person I had, my only real friend, and I didn’t want to believe you would take her from me too—”_

_“Emilie, listen—”_

_“ _—_ But of course you did! I knew, because I know you: Gabriel Agreste, the man who only wants what isn’t his. Well, this isn’t yours. This is mine. You’ll never get your hands on it, never. You’re a powerful man, Gabriel, but you’ll never know power like this.”_

_“What on earth are you—”_

A ripping sound, a rushing sound, like a blade cutting through the air. Shattering glass. A panicked shout.

Nathalie does as she’s told. She doesn’t move from her spot until Gabriel returns, shellshocked, holding only a fistful of feathers and a torn scrap of blue fabric.

“Did you…?”

Nathalie looks down. “In the news, they call her Le Paon. Years ago she told me how it works, but something's different now. Something isn’t right. She won’t take the pin off, ever. She—underneath, on her shoulder, her skin is turning blue. Like it’s backfiring.”

Gabriel is silent. One of the feathers escapes his grip and drifts slowly to the floor.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. How do we stop it?”

Nathalie shakes her head, tears welling up and threatening to spill. “I don’t know, monsieur. I don’t know if we can.”

 

* * *

 

**ii. Shanghai**

 

Nathalie wasn’t there when they found them. She stayed behind in Lhasa to take a conference call, to balance the budget, to try to manage the business over a terrible cellular connection and even slower internet. She didn’t go on the hike through the mountains, didn’t catch sight of a ruined temple on a far peak and feel the desire to climb it. She didn’t comb through the snow-covered ashes and peer over Emilie’s shoulder as she pulled two beautiful lacquer boxes—miraculously unburnt and unharmed—out of the wreckage.

Instead, Nathalie worked, and it paid off. Gabriel was still stomping the snow from his shoes when the call came from China.

“Get us on the next flight,” he commanded, throwing his and Emilie’s things back into their suitcases. It was the most nervous she had ever seen him. “If this deal goes through—”

“It will, monsieur.”

“—Then we’ve done it: we’ll be producing the Gabriel brand’s first ready-to-wear line. We’ll be a household name worldwide within the next year. _If_ it goes through.”

“Monsieur Agreste.” She put a hand on his elbow, steadying him. “Trust me. It will.”

As Nathalie hurried downstairs to ask the concierge to book their tickets, she crashed right into Emilie, whose nose was buried in some massive book.

“Oh! My apologies, madame! Shall I hold the elevator for you? Your husband has already started packing your things, and I’m just going to confirm the flight—”

“Yes, sure, whatever he wants to—wait—” Emilie looked up. “Wait, packing our things? Why?”

“The Xias' manufacturing company just called, madame. They’re interested in producing the ready-to-wear line, and Monsieur Agreste thinks he should be there in person with your lawyer to inspect—”

Nathalie jumped when Emilie slapped the book shut.

“Nathalie, are you seriously telling me that my husband wants to leave our vacation for a business trip on the night of our anniversary?”

“I…he…” Nathalie did not know what kind of answer would be better, or easier, or more soothing than ‘yes.’ “It’s a very big business deal, madame. But it’s not that long of a flight to Shanghai, not really, and I’m sure we can be back here within two days.”

 _“Gabriel_ can come back within two days, if he actually gives a shit. I’m staying right here.”

Nathalie blinked. “Madame? But—”

“‘But’ what? I’m on vacation.” Emilie punched the elevator button, hefting the book under her arm. “Don’t bother rebooking the suite; I’ll have them move me right now. No need to waste the largest room on a woman alone.”

“Madame, I'm sorry, there's no other way to—”

The elevator doors chimed, and Emilie stepped in. Without looking back she said, “Have a safe flight, Nathalie. Enjoy Shanghai.”

She may as well have said _fuck you._

Nathalie was there when Gabriel Agreste signed the contract in the boardroom, when he shook hands with his new business partners and toasted to a new life for the Gabriel brand. She was there when he left the room and just stood against the hallway wall, hands shaking like he’d defused a bomb, mouth stretched in a grin half-awestruck, half-manic.

“You did it,” she said, watching him upset his perfect robin’s egg blue coiffure by pushing his glasses onto his head so that he could wipe stunned tears from his eyes. “Monsieur, _you did it!”_

“No, no, no.” He took her by the arms, grip so tight that it almost hurt. Now there were happy tears springing to her eyes too. _“We_ did it, Nathalie. You and I. Thank you.” Fumbling, he pressed her hands between his own and kissed her knuckles once, twice, three times, firm and quick. “Thank you. For always, always being there for me. Without you, I don’t know what I would have done—”

Emilie wasn’t there when they kissed that first time. She wasn’t there to intervene when Nathalie leaned up and crushed her mouth to Gabriel’s, when Gabriel pulled her tight against his chest, when they pressed each other against the wall, all teeth and tongues and uncompromising hands, until they were red-faced and breathless. She wasn’t there to see them gradually separate, panting, silent.

Emilie stayed behind in Lhasa, and no one knew what she did there.

 

* * *

 

**xii. Paris**

 

It feels no heavier than an ordinary brooch. It gives off no heat, no light, no indication at all that in the right hands, it could change the world. Nathalie hurriedly wipes the dust off. Already she can feel the akuma's link fading. 

She fears even in the moment that she’s deciding too quickly, but that’s nothing new. Nathalie has always decided too quickly.

“I’m sorry,” she says, pressing one hand against the glass, right over Emilie’s heart. She’ll have to wipe her handprint off later. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. _Transforme-moi.”_

**Author's Note:**

> The classic MJ footnotes:
> 
> \- IFM, or Institut Français de la Mode, is one of the top fashion schools in Paris
> 
> \- "The Berlinale" is the industry nickname of the Berlin International Film Festival
> 
> \- "the Michelin-rated sushi place" in Tokyo is Sukiyabashi Jiro
> 
> \- a real live New Yorker assured me that seeing a magic peacock superhero beat up thugs late at night on the subway would be a surprise, but ultimately taken mostly in stride by native New Yorkers, who have seen much weirder


End file.
